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IN COMMEMORATION 



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4. 



December 5, 1883. 



Utt^ G, l\'^,<v;j5iu.ivwA 



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I want to be a Dragoon, 

And with the Dragoons stand — 
To charge a loaded table, 

With knife and fork in hand ! 
To hear the crj' of onset. 

The clash of blade and spear. 
And see through flame and battle-smoke, 

The viands disappear! 

II. 

To him — our earliest chieftain. 

Our leader tli rough the war — 
Send greeting from his comrades 

Who won for him the star ! 
Though distant, stern, unlovely, 

His head was cool and clear, 
And few would shrink from following 

Our wily Brigadier ! 

III. 

Hail Belts ! our modest idol ! 

Once corporal in the line, 
The eagles never lighted 

On worthier straps than thine ! 
In war the fearless leader. 

By rebel balls shot ihrou^h — 
In peace the perfect gentleman. 

Kind, courteou.s, faithful, true! 

IV. 

What figure rises yonder ? 

' Tis Buzby, gallant man ! 
AVho rode with Colonel Palmer — 

So proudly in the van. 
He tells lu)W Stoneman, swearing, 

Calls Palmer to the fray. 
To clear the town of rebels 

Who hold the van at bay ; 
And how the Tetinesseeans — 

A lierd of beaten loons — 
Exclaim with pride as up we ride, 

" Here come the bold Dragoons !" 






Lo ! from the smoke emerging 

Appears Falstaffian Browne, 
Who was, though but a private, 

A general of renown ; 
For he, at Murfreesboro, 

In spite of threats and sneers. 
Sent Colonels to the right-about, 

And swore at Brigadiers ! 

YI. 

Alas ! the comic minstrel, 

Poor Smyth, is gone before 1 
His voice is still, like Yorick's ; 

His songs are sung no more. 
Let's fill our glasses sadly. 

And toast eternal rest 
To all the Dragoons who have reached 

The camp-ground of the blest ! 

YII. 

For you, surviving comrades, 

We sound the supper-call ! 
Too soon, alas ! will follow 

Tattoo and taps for all ; 
A few decades will empty 

These chairs that throng the room, 
And lay the last old vet'ran 

In his last bunk, the tomb ! 

YIII. 

Then forward, snbreurs, forward ! 

Draw knives and forks and spoons ; 
Praj' Heaven no worse engagements 

Be yours again. Dragoons I 
We want no more the battle-roar, — 

Let roars of lauirhter echo ! 
The blood we spill is of the still ! 

Uur smoke is of tobacco ! 

J. A. B. Williams. 



013 709 



LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 



013 709 241 4 



